Hapless Girth and His Pilchard Mane

Pour it yourself, Tonsils. That’s a potato in his hand. Take this as fair warning. Beyond that, take it as far as you can. But remember what was said about Book Sound:

‘I’ve never heard a book make that sound,' he said, grazing an eye.

Took him by surprise. You shouldn’t shoot up without me. He didn’t say that. Later the poor boy came by without the change, but it was arranged he’d pay back something but unkind.

‘Say a little anthem for me, I’ll slit your belly. Twist your neck, poor boy, and I can of beans you grotty urchin. Where’s the change?’

‘No change, master.’

It was wordless what he did with needle and thread. The poor boy never drank Tokay like it through the straw in his little throat. Twine and wood glue through his lips, sewed up nice and bloody red. No better than a pickpocket.

‘No change? Scream if you want to.’

The poor boy cried a bit.

‘I’ve never heard a book make that sound before,’ he said, grazing an eye, ‘Now piss off.'

But the poor boy wasn’t a book.

Take him anyway you like, back front front back, and leave a little something with the registrar.

Hapless Girth, you fickle fool, settle on a buzz cut fish gut; without pilchard mane you’ll mind far less and won’t keep spinning.